The Jew yawned. "Loogs like id," he conceded. "Did you vant to buy a gun?" "I want ten cents' worth of shot," his customer replied, pointing out the size he wanted; and, after the storekeeper had weighed out the quantity and it had been dropped into his pockets, he started on his way rejoicing, making a bee line for Wilkinson's. It was getting-up time now, but not for people on the Drive. There silence reigned supreme. But Beekman felt very wide awake. His conversation with Leslie the night before in the Pallet-Searing cosy-corner, and his successful night's work had gone to his head like wine. And it was this condition that led him to purchase a handful of shot; and now, regardless of the fact that he was operating on the residence that had cost ten million dollars, more or less, and, in fact, regardless of consequences, he took his station in the middle of the Drive and selecting half a dozen missiles from his pocket, he flung them lightly through the air, aiming for a wide window-pane on the third story of the house. Three times he did this. The fourth time he was stopped by a voice calling out: "Hi, there!" Turning quickly Beekman found himself confronted with the majesty of the law. "What're you trying to do?" demanded the officer. "Isn't it a bit early in the morning, or a bit late in the evening, to be out on a drunk? What's doin', anyway?" Beekman grinned, desisting, nevertheless. "A bit of old-time romance," he explained; "trying to wake her up, that's all." "Is her name Norah?" demanded the blue-coat, threateningly. Beekman glanced aloft; then he plucked the officer by the sleeve. "Look for yourself," he rejoined, "and see.... Is that Norah up there?" While the officer scanned the housetop, Beekman gazed innocently out over the Hudson. "It is--not," he assented joyfully. "And so long as it is not, I have nought to say, except," the policeman's voice trailed off into a whisper, "except, sir, that the lady is waving to you. Look now, and see." Beekman looked. There she was, indeed. "I've been up an hour!" she cried. "Wait until I come down." In the music-room, she greeted him with: "Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes. I came to tell you...." "Then you got my telegram all right?" Beekman shook his head. "You're not the Bank Le Boeuf of Buffalo?" "I didn't phone you," she went on, ignoring his question, "because I couldn't, don't you know. But I sent a wire so you'd get it the first thing this morning--at your club." "Crowd there too sleepy to get it to me, I suppose," he said, puzzled. "What was in it?" But without waiting for an answer, he went on: "I came to tell you about my telegram," and with that he passed it over to her. "Business before pleasure," he remarked tritely, and yet in a manner that he knew she would understand. "I can't go on the _Marchioness_, you see."